That One May Smile Page 8

  West watched her as she vanished down the dangerous slippery slope of memory lane, saw her face soften, her eyes glow and, for an infinitesimal moment, he felt a sharp unexpected pang of jealousy.

  He put his cup down sharply, the ensuing clatter making her blink and return from wherever it was she had gone. ‘Did you ever go further abroad?’ he asked, thinking of Simon Johnson’s frequent trips abroad.

  ‘No,’ abruptly Kelly was reminded of her last argument with Simon. It was about six weeks before he vanished. She had surprised him with a special birthday present, over dinner at their favourite restaurant, watching with growing excitement as he opened the beautifully wrapped gift. Her excitement ended as swiftly as a burst bubble when he had thrown the holiday brochure and tickets to one side and stated, categorically, that he was not interested in a holiday to Mauritius. She couldn’t sway him, no matter what she said and the very expensive holiday was abandoned. ‘He didn’t like flying,’ she explained now to Sergeant West although she never had had a proper explanation from Simon. He had resolutely refused to discuss it.

  A soft hum made West suddenly reach into his breast pocket. Pulling out his mobile, hearing Andrews’ voice, he nodded an apology to Kelly and left the room.

  Left alone, Kelly poured herself some more coffee. West’s questions…interrogation, she supposed it to be, really…had reminded her of things she had tried to forget and things she had, genuinely, forgotten. She wondered, now, why Simon had such a dislike of flying, why all their trips to the UK had to be by ferry. She knew he had flown frequently in the past. In one of their earliest conversations, perhaps even their first one when they had met and spent hours talking, he had mentioned having had to travel a lot to the Middle East and even, she vaguely recalled, the Far East. When she had mentioned this, before she cancelled the Mauritius holiday, he had laughed and told her she was imagining things. He had become irritated when she had pursued the matter so she had let it drop. She wondered now why he had lied, and a thought fluttered like a butterfly at the edges of her mind – if he could lie so easily about that, what else had he lied to her about? She refused to acknowledge this traitorous thought but couldn’t deny a moment’s sadness that, for whatever reason, he had definitely lied to her.

  A creaking door signalled West’s return. He sat, took a mouthful of coffee and grimaced.

  ‘Cold!’ he complained, putting the cup down. He checked his watch. It was almost twelve. He had a lot more questions to ask the woman sitting opposite him and a long journey

  back to Ireland ahead of him. His conversation with Andrews had been informative but, rather than clearer, the waters were getting even muddier.

  Andrews had requisitioned Simon Johnson’s full bank details and discovered that the 2000euro was, indeed, an internal transfer from another account in Johnson’s name. However the money didn’t come from any company that Johnson did contract work for but, in fact, appeared to be coming, each month, from one individual by the name of Alberto Castlelione.

  ‘Rent,’ Andrews informed him bluntly, ‘It’s rent money for a very fancy Cork apartment. And that is the only money being deposited. No money from any company or business at all.’

  Numerous phone calls had uncovered quite a bit more about the missing man, most of it negative information. He’d never submitted tax returns, never declared tax on the rent. ‘In fact,’ Andrews added, ‘Inland Revenue don’t know our missing man, Simon Johnson, at all. He didn’t own the house in Drumcondra, that belonged to Kelly Johnson, or Kelly Shaw as she was then. Nor does he own the house in Foxrock – that’s in Kelly Johnson’s name only. However,’ he continued accompanied by a rustle of paper, ‘our victim Simon Johnson did own an apartment in Cork. I spoke to his sister, she says her brother owned an apartment and had it let out for the last year. We’re just waiting to hear if that is the same apartment our devious Simon Johnson rented out.’

  ‘Some form of identity theft!’ West surmised, with a shake of his head.

  ‘Starting to look that way, alright. We’ve still a few calls to make but we should have the information we need by late this evening or, maybe, early tomorrow. What about his missus?’

  West had phoned Andrews earlier to let him know she had turned up in Come-to-Good. He filled him in now on what he had learned. ‘Cyril Pratt may well be our missing man’s real name so run it through and see what you come up with,’ he requested then added after a pause, ‘Of course, if identity theft is his thing he could be using any name at this stage. Not so much missing then, as metamorphosing.’

  ‘A regular chameleon, eh? Right, I’ll see what we have on Cyril Pratt, to begin with. Not sure I’d blame the bloke changing a name like that, mind you!’

  ‘Not worth killing over though is it,’ West had the last word and cutting the connection headed back into the dining room where Kelly still sat, a coffee-cup nestling in her cupped hands.

  He sat assimilating the information he had been handed. He needed a few minutes to think, he thought, and reaching the table he suggested they have some more coffee.

  She nodded in agreement and once again was left alone to peruse the view. She needed some fresh air, she thought, and, the idea being mother to the action, she got up and hurried from the room. It was a mild day with a hint of the summer to come lurking in the air. She made her way to the garden she had seen both from her bedroom and dining room. It was as pretty close up as it was from afar and held a wide variety of tulips swaying in the slight breeze that drifted around the edge of the Inn. A small stream ran through part of it and, here under the shade of a horse-chestnut tree pregnant with leaf, an array of ferns was planted, already unfurling fuzzy green tongues in response to an unseasonal warmth. A beautifully weathered, old wooden-bench sat under the tree and she guessed it would be a lovely place, later in the year, to shelter from the heat of the sun. Nicely done, she decided, looking around in pleasure, knowing from experience that an uncontrived look like this one took a lot of work.

  West, meanwhile, had returned to the dining room and knew a moment’s angry panic before catching a glimpse of her through the window. He sat and took the opportunity to examine her more closely. Obviously relaxed in her stroll around the garden he had to acknowledge she was a remarkably good looking girl. Not pretty, he decided, but there was something decidedly attractive about her. Fabulous figure helped, of course, but it wasn’t just that, he mused, it was…he gave up, he couldn’t decide just what it was about her that appealed to him. Just that moment, as he stared at her, she turned and caught his gaze. Embarrassed he quickly looked away and shuffled in his chair. Moments later she joined him, saying lightly as she came through the door, ‘I hope you didn’t think I had run away. I just needed some fresh air.’

  Smiling, he commented on the garden, ‘It looks like a nice garden I’ll have a look later myself. Tulips are a particular favourite of mine; I have a lot in my garden.’

  She returned the smile, thinking to herself that, like most people he probably only liked them when they were tidily furled and standing to attention. Probably cut them down as soon as they became voluptuous showgirls showing their underwear to all and sundry. Her smile lingered and West, beguiled, wondered what she was thinking of.

  Coffee was delivered, this time by the landlord’s wife, who placed it before them with a pleasant smile. She had also brought unbidden, slices of what looked like homemade coffee cake. Without hesitation they both reached for a slice. They ate silently, West secretly amused that they looked like any couple out for a day in the country.

  He licked his fingers, sat back with a satisfied sigh, and watched as she finished off her slice, hesitated only slightly, then reached for a second with a guilty shrug. ‘I just love coffee cake,’ she justified. ‘And this is a really good one!’

  Her fabulous figure wasn’t at the expense of her appetite, he thought in admiration and then administered a mental kick, reminding himself why he was here and that she could well be a murderer or at least an acco
mplice.

  ‘Your husband told the estate agent in Foxrock that he was purchasing the house with money he had won on the Lottery. How much, exactly, did he win?’ he asked, focused again.

  She choked on the last of her cake, coughing and spluttering, tears gathering quickly. She grabbed a napkin and held it over her mouth, trying to regain control. She took a mouthful of water and slowly calmed. Using the napkin she wiped the tears from her eyes glad, after all, that she had come away without mascara, the panda look was never a good one.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped, ‘Went down the wrong way.’ She took another sip of water. ‘Simon never won the lottery,’ she finally answered, ‘where did you get that idea?’

  If she were lying she was good, West thought, before answering. ‘It was what he told the estate agent. He told them you would be able to move quickly on the sale because he had the cash from his win.’

  ‘He must have been joking,’ Kelly replied with an unconvincing laugh.

  ‘Ok. Then where did you get the money to buy the house. You hadn’t sold yours.’

  Kelly hesitated, trying to remember exactly how things had been. She was so excited about the house she hadn’t questioned Simon when he had said they could afford it. Looking at the policeman across the table from her now she anticipated his inability to understand. She wasn’t sure she did. She had always been the one in control but when she met Simon she just seemed to let him take over. She enjoyed not worrying about money and bills and when he said they could afford the house she didn’t question him, just enjoyed it all. What was wrong with that?

  ‘He had sold an apartment in Cork, before he met me. A big fancy one on the waterfront, I believe. So the money was there, in the bank.’ She offered now.

  West looked at her sharply. ‘He had two apartments in Cork?’

  She looked at him, confused, ‘No, just the one. He sold it. He was staying in a hotel when I met him, doing some work for a local company.’

  ‘You are unaware, then, that he has been receiving money for the rental of an apartment in Cork,’ he queried.

  She looked completely puzzled. ‘That’s impossible. Simon would have mentioned it. He had one apartment; he sold it and used the money from the sale to buy our house. Your information is incorrect, Sergeant West.’ She held his gaze, frowning, twisting the napkin she still held in her hand, into a knot.

  ‘The money from the sale of your house,’ he continued relentlessly, ‘where did that go.’

  ‘It’s still in my account,’ she explained, ‘Simon wanted me to keep it.’ She sighed and tried to explain, ‘I don’t make a lot of money from my writing, Sergeant, and deadline pressures are tough. I have wanted, for a long, long time, to write adult fiction but haven’t had the time to do so. The money has made a difference…I’ve reduced my workload and spend more time writing what I want.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t know if it’s any good but I just finished a novel,’ her smile faded, ‘I haven’t done anything with it yet…’ she shrugged.

  West’s phone again intruded. He sighed and stood as he took it from his pocket. She rose at the same time. ‘I just need to go to my room for a moment,’ she explained as he raised an eyebrow in query.

  He nodded, ‘I’ll be five minutes.’

  In fact, it was nearer to fifteen minutes before he sat down again following a long conversation with Andrews and then with Inspector Duffy.

  Andrews had run Cyril Platt’s name as requested and hit paydirt. ‘You could make your bed with this bloke’s sheet,’ he informed West succinctly. ‘He started with petty larceny, progressing to some weighty post-office robberies. He did a few years for those and while inside he appeared to have had lessons in the delights of extortion because he has stuck with that since. He’s been inside several times but never for very long thanks to our wonderful legal system and to the fact that our man is a real charmer and never uses violence. It seems,’ he added with heavy sarcasm, ‘we are now to be grateful for non-violent criminals!

  ‘On a personal note,’ he continued, ‘He has been married three times. His current wife lives in Cork with their two children.’

  ‘Current wife,’ West repeated in disbelief. ‘You’re sure they’re still married?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I rang his house and she answered. Her name is Amanda. According to her he works away a lot and she’s not sure when he’ll be home next. I got the impression that she didn’t much care. She mentioned that he took his car this time which he didn’t normally do, something about needing access to paperwork that he kept in the boot of it.’

  West wiped his face with his free hand. Another thread to add to the tangle. ‘So, if as we suspect, the missing Simon Johnson and Cyril Pratt are one and the same, we can add bigamy to his list of crimes.’ He sighed. ‘Any news yet on the Cork apartment?’

  Andrews hadn’t heard back from the victim’s sister and rang off to chase that up leaving West to explain the increasingly complicated tale to his superior. He headed back to the lounge with a heavy sigh and a mind racing and was only mildly surprised when Kelly hadn’t returned. The landlord came bustling in to take away the plates and he asked for fresh coffee. ‘For both of us, please,’ he added, indicating Kelly’s chair and at the same time beginning to wonder what was keeping her for such a long time.

  The landlord continued to clear the table managing to balance the plates and cups easily in one enormous hand. ‘She’s gone,’ he informed West bluntly, nodding to the empty chair.

  West didn’t rate the man’s intelligence highly and said in an exaggerated clear, slow voice as if talking to someone with poor hearing, ‘She has just gone to her room for a moment. She will be back. We would like more coffee.’ Maybe they were outstaying their welcome he thought when the landlord gave him a hard stare. Was he being too demanding asking for more coffee? He was going to pay for it after all!

  The landlord gave a shrug and left, to return moments later with a fresh pot of coffee and one cup. West was just about to remonstrate when the landlord said, in an abnormally slow, clear voice, as if speaking to someone hard of hearing. ‘The lady won’t want coffee. The lady settled up, about ten minutes ago, and left. She drove away in her car.’

  SEVEN

  A wild and wet morning didn’t help to abate West’s anger next morning and he slammed his office door, threw his briefcase on the floor and, sitting heavily into his chair, prepared for an embarrassing conversation with Inspector Duffy. His head ached adding to his annoyance. He had a horrendous journey back from Cornwall, road works on the road to Plymouth slowing traffic down to a forty mile an hour crawl. Then just when he thought it couldn’t get worse, it stopped moving almost completely, an accident a few miles further on closing two lanes. He had sat seething for nearly two hours, alternately condemning himself for being a gullible idiot and her for being a devious, conniving, manipulative…he ran out of adjectives as he inched along the road, imagining instead weird and wonderful punishments to suit the crime. He was trying to recall all he knew about the Spanish Inquisition when the traffic began to speed up.

  He had missed his flight and had no choice but to pay again to go on the next flight six hours later. He had spent the six hours making and taking phone calls, trying to run the case from the airport. The inspector was suitably annoyed although he did concede that innocent people didn’t generally run, and on that basis Kelly Johnson must be guilty of something. They just needed to find out what. He agreed, once again, to contact Devon and Cornwall police and ask them to be on the lookout for her. They were less cordial this time when asked to be on the lookout for a woman who hadn’t, as far as the Gardai knew, committed a crime.

  Inspector Duffy was annoyed as a result and took it out on West, blaming him for putting him in the situation, criticising his decision in going to Cornwall and his incompetence in losing sight of Kelly Johnson.

  By the time West landed in Dublin at eight o’clock that night he was seething. He picked up his car and drove home in silence, a headache
beginning to pound.

  He was met at his front door by a pair of doleful, brown eyes that castigated without saying a word. ‘Don’t you start,’ West snarled unapologetically throwing his holdall on the hall floor. ‘You can come and go as you please, you’ve plenty to eat. Do not give me grief.’ He poured himself a large Jameson and collapsed into his favourite comfortable chair.

  He had furnished his house well. Expensive sofas in a rich tapestry defying the theory that men always choose leather. Rather than modern matching furniture, he had picked up an eclectic mix from antique shops and car boot sales and the result was a pleasant comfortable home that offered an escape from the invariable seediness of his job. He thought he had pretty good taste but then again, he seethed angrily, he had thought he had pretty good judgement and instincts too. He poured himself another whiskey, sipping slowly this time, allowing the whiskey to work its magic. Light footsteps pattered over the walnut floor and he turned his head to see the little Chihuahua looking up at him, its prominent brown eyes accusing.

  He sighed and patted the sofa and the little dog jumped up and curled into a ball beside him. ‘Sorry, Tyler,’ he said, ‘I’ve just had a hell of a day.’ Tyler lifted his head and looked at him, gave a short, sharp yelp then curled up again. Moments later he was snoring with a soft snuffle.

  ‘Some day your owner is going to get tired of living the high life in San Francisco and take you home,’ West addressed the sleeping dog, ‘And he can take all those feeding machines with him and get rid of that damn cat flap.’ Brendan, an old friend had pleaded with him to mind the dog while he went off to ‘find himself’. West had pleaded long working days as an excuse but his friend had come up with the perfect solution. Three, timed-feeding machines so Tyler would never go hungry and a cat flap so Tyler could spend what time he wanted in West’s safe, walled garden. ‘Just for a month or so,’ he had begged. That was over a year ago and there was still no sign of his return. West looked down at the small, hairless bundle next to him and sighed. He’d miss him when he did go but would never admit it except, maybe when bone tired or after at least two whiskeys.